Dream London (42 page)

“Come on,” said Elizabeth. “I’ll take you back to my place.”

“But why?” I asked.

She smiled at that.

“Where else are you to go?”

The sound of the fighting, the gunfire, the brass bands, the yelling of the crowd, all of these had become a constant in the night. When it suddenly ceased, the silence seemed to ring out like a bell.

“What’s happened?” I asked.

“Look,” said Elizabeth.

Off to the east, rising up into the night above the skeletal towers of the floodlights of the Footballdrome, we could see that Angel Tower was burning. Golden flames were licking their way around the building, gradually climbing higher and higher up its length.

“They got it,” I said. “They got it. Come on, we should go and help.”

“There’s nothing you can do,” said Elizabeth, taking my hand and pulling me back.

We stood and watched as the flames reached the bulging section near the top. Suddenly, orange light bloomed there. We shielded our eyes, we felt the compression in the air as something exploded. There was a second explosion, and then a third. A circular band of blue flame expanded out over the city.

My skin tingled, my ears rang, I tasted raspberry, I smelled rubber, a spiral turned before my eyes. The ground shook, the air sneezed, the sky flickered. Then there was stillness.

“That was the Contract Floor,” I said. “I’m sure of it. Does that mean this is all over?”

“It is for you, you can barely stand up.” Miss Elizabeth Baines put her arm into mine. “Come on, let’s get you home.”

We walked across Snakes and Ladders Square, heading back to her house. Fine black ash began to rain down around us. It settled on our hands, on our faces. We blinked it from our eyes.

Around us, the dark shapes of cats were heading back off on mysterious errands of their own. Above us, blue flames spun across the heavens. From the distance I heard the sound of guns, of fighting, and rather appropriately, I thought, the note of one silver cornet.

SEVENTEEN

JAMES WEDDERBURN

O
UTSIDE, THE BIGGEST
party that the city formerly known as Dream London had ever seen was taking place. It was played out to the music of brass bands. The sound of music and dancing and general good cheer reached even into the quiet calm of Miss Elizabeth Baines’shouse.

To begin with we had sat in the garden and looked up at the night, wondering if the moon was smaller than it had been. In the end thirst had got the better of me and we had gone inside.

We both climbed up to Elizabeth’s bedroom and, fully clothed, we had lain on the bed.

“Hand me the bottle,” I said.

She stared at me, and then passed it over. I turned the top and felt the ignition of the bubbles. I raised the bottle to my lips and paused.

“You shouldn’t stay here, Liz,” I said. “Go away. Leave me for the night. What if the spell isn’t broken? What if I become a Wailer?”

“Then the cats will do to you what they did to Honey Peppers,” she said, perfectly seriously. Like she had said, you could care without being sentimental.

Then her face softened in a hopeless love. I felt my face do the same. I lowered the bottle and reached out with my other hand to touch hers.

“I don’t deserve you, Liz.”

“I know that.”

I raised the bottle in a toast, and then put it to my lips and drank. Water! It tasted so good. I drank and drank, and as I did so I felt my tongue ripple and drink along with me.

“What’s happening?” asked Liz.

“Nothing,” I lied. I drained the rest of the bottle, and lay back on the bed. After a moment’s hesitation, Liz joined me. I lay on my back, and she cuddled up closer, her head on my shoulder, her leg across mine.

“This feels so right,” I said.

“Shhh,” said Liz. “Let’s go to sleep.”

I stared up at the ceiling, so far away above me now. What would it be like in the morning, I wondered?

Somewhere in the room I heard the sound of something eating.

Mmmmm. Crunch crunch crunch. Mmmmmmm.

I closed my eyes and fell asleep.

I
AWOKE WITH
bright daylight streaming across me. Liz lay beside me, fast asleep. I reached across and gently touched her shoulder.

My tongue felt heavy, so heavy. I closed my eyes again, slowly moving my tongue back and forth. It felt thick and furry, like after a night’s drinking. I tapped it against my teeth, feeling the end of it for dead patches, for eyes.

Liz was stirring now. She rolled over and smiled at me, so sweetly.

“James,” she said, and then her brow furrowed with concern as she remembered the night before.

“James,” she said, rolling up. “Your tongue. How are you?”

She felt it then, felt it at the same time as I did. We looked at each other, held each other’s gaze.

“You feel it too?” she said.

I did. The world had lost something, that exciting zing you get when you first breathe anaesthetic gas, that feeling of the exotic, just before it knocks you unconscious.

I smacked my heavy tongue in my mouth. Something broke free from the end. As Liz watched I spat out one, then two little jelly balls into my hand.

Liz looked down at them without shuddering. Two little bloodshot balls, black pupils in the end.

“My tongue is still heavy,” I said. I could feel bitter pus oozing from the two holes from which the eyes had disengaged. I didn’t tell Liz that.

“You can’t speak properly,” she said. “That sounded all mushy. Rest your tongue.”

We both looked up at the ceiling at the same time. It was lower than it had been last night, much lower.

As one we turned and looked out of the open window. All we could see was the sky.

“It’s a paler blue than yesterday,” said Liz. “Smell the air.”

I sniffed, and knew what she meant.

“The air smells cleaner,” I said. “Fresher.”

There was still the faint hint of summer on the air, but it was the green of leaves and the white of blossom rather than the gaudy colours of flowers crowding together.

“It’s gone,” I said. “Whatever it was has gone.”

“Stop speaking. You’re dripping blood and pus from your mouth,” said Liz, and even in the midst of all that, I still found time to be impressed by how unphased she was by my condition. “I’ll get you something,” she added.

I spat yellow pus into a white enamel bowl.

“It’s really gone,” repeated Liz.

“I wonder how many people are really pleased about that?” I said, thinking of the Cartel, of the people in the towers.

“What about those who lost their children? Do you think they’ll feel guilty?”

I spat into the bowl again.

“We’re not all individuals any more,” I said. “I’m pleased about that.” I looked at Liz. “How do you feel this morning?”

She held my gaze. “You’re talking about my scroll, aren’t you?” she said. “You’re asking how I feel about you, now that the spell has gone.”

“Yes.”

“What do you want me to say?” Blue eyes held my gaze.

“I want you to say...” My words trailed away.

“That I still love you?”

“Yes,” I said. Then I thought about it. “No. That doesn’t sound right. That wouldn’t be right. What I mean is, I want you to still like me.”

I spat more blood into the bowl.

“You want me to like you? Is that all?”

“No. I want more than that. But I want you to decide that for yourself. I don’t want it to be because you read it on a piece of paper.”

She stared at me. And stared at me, her mouth set in a frown. And then she suddenly smiled.

“That was the right answer, Captain Wedderburn.”

“Call me James,” I said. “Captain Wedderburn was an invention of Dream London.”

“No,” said Elizabeth. “Don’t blame Dream London for all your faults, James. They were with you at the start. All the changes did was give them soil in which to grow.”

I lowered my head. She was right.

“Still, you recognised that in time and tried to change,” she said. “I like that.”

L
ATER ON THAT
day, we took a walk through the streets. The sky was clouding over, and from all around we could hear the creak and groan of stone as the city shifted position. Perhaps it was shrinking back into shape.

“How’s the tongue?” she asked.

“Better all the time,” I said.

There was a sucking sound, and we watched as a long section of browning ivy peeled away from the side of a building and tumbled to the ground. A rotting vegetable smell filled the air.

“It feels like it’s going to rain,” said Liz.

“I can’t remember the last time it did.”

“I wonder if the underground trains will grow back? I wonder if we’ll have to rewire all the electricity?”

“I hope not,” I said. “Or maybe I do. It will mean lots of work for people.”

“Good point,” said Liz. “What are you going to do, James? Go back to your old job?”

I thought of the girls of Belltower End. I wasn’t going back to that job. And then I remembered that before that, I used to be soldier.

“I’m not going back in the army if that’s what you mean,” I said. “I don’t know what I’ll do yet.”

“It’s starting to rain,” said Liz.

It was a misty sort of drizzle, but we raised our faces to it and gratefully felt it patter over our faces. It was an honest rain, one that left dirty trails, one that dampened down the smell of the rubbish, one that made the crops grow. Just a bit of drizzle on the face.

There was no sweeter feeling.

THE END

HOW DOES IT FEEL, NOT BEING REAL?

In Hollywood, where last year’s stars are this year’s busboys, Fictionals are everywhere. Niles Golan’s therapist is a Fictional. So is his best friend. So (maybe) is the woman in the bar he can’t stop staring at.

Fictionals – characters ‘translated’ into living beings for movies and TV using cloning technology – are a part of daily life in LA now. Sometimes the problem is knowing who’s real and who’s not.

Divorced, alcoholic and hanging on by a thread, Niles – author of
The Saladin Imperative: A Kurt Power Novel
and many others – has been hired to write a big-budget reboot of a classic movie. If he does this right, the studio might bring one of Niles’ own characters to life. But somewhere beneath the movie – beneath the TV show it was inspired by, the children’s book behind that and the story behind
that
– is the kernel of something important. If he can just hold it together long enough to figure it out...

‘A disturbing, self-reflective type of brilliance.’

Pornokitsch
on
Death Got No Mercy

‘There’s a lot to love here.’

Total Sci-Fi
on
Gods of Manhattan

www.solarisbooks.com